It’s going dark, my love,
by Charlie F. Kane
And our fire is dying out.
They’ll be nothing left but embers,
If we let it carry on that way.
High on some great mountaintop
Where the holy rivers run and voices remain mute,
And lighting rolls like static under a dotted sky,
Was where we lit a fire in the spring of an evening
But now it’s Autumn and the fire is dying out.
©Charlie F. Kane